


A Touch of Perfection

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because as long as Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was John, it would always be like this. And it would always be perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written an asexual!Sherlock fic before, so concrit would be lovely. I've read a few articles about asexuality and what that actually means (all from reliable sources, no shaming, I promise) but any additional comments would be very helpful. Am I completely off base? Or did I get it correct enough to be believable? Please tell me these things.
> 
> When I first set out to write this, it wasn't going to be post-Reichenbach, but it just snuck up on me. Part of me can't wait for series three just so I can stop having post-Reichenbach ideas that are all clearly wrong. Anyways.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, all typos are mine. If you find one, please include it with your comment and I will see that it's fixed.

Bombs exploded all around him. The smell of gunpowder, the sound of screaming. His men were hurt and he had to help them. Completely ignoring his own safety, John stood up from behind his make-shift barricade. He was only out in the open for a few seconds, but a few seconds was enough.

The bullet ripped through his shoulder, sending pain along nerve fibers and all through his body. The doctor in the back of John’s head started going through a mental check list: can I walk? Yes. Didn’t hit my spine, then. Hemorrhage rate? Moderate, no major organs damaged. Breathing? Labored, but acceptable. Can I keep moving? Yes. Must see to the others.

Just like that, John disregarded his own injury—the one gushing blood down his uniform to leave a trail in the sand—and tried to get to the men he heard screaming. Dying. But something was pulling him back. Something at his newly-injured shoulder. No, not just the one shoulder, both. Pulling at him with great strength

His head snapped back, eyes flying open as his voice croaked out the last of a scream. John wasn’t bleeding in some desert, he was home, at Baker Street, in his bed. With… something wrapped around him?

Now that he was awake, he could feel them: four warm, fleshy coils wrapped around his body, holding him back against an equally warm and solid mass. “John?” A deep voice rumbled in his ear. Sherlock. Well, that explained that.

John tried to shift and the coils around his body—Sherlock’s arms and legs—tightened. “I’m alright,” he whispered, but Sherlock didn’t relax his hold. “Nightmare. That’s all.” One swallow and then another, trying to chase away his dry throat. “I’m alright now, you don’t need to keep a hold of me.” Of course, John said this for Sherlock’s comfort. The man wasn’t exactly the most tactile person. Well, not when it came to other people. Sure, he’d sit on the sofa and stroke the skull, and he would always be the first to stick his hands into one disgusting bit of evidence or another, but people? People weren’t really Sherlock’s area.

Despite John’s assurances, Sherlock stayed exactly where he was. “You were screaming,” Sherlock whispered into his shoulder. “It sounded like you were… in danger.”

“It was just a nightmare,” John said. He reached his hands back until he felt the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. Giving them a reassuring squeeze (he figured that—given their position—touching Sherlock there was okay for now) John started trying to calm Sherlock. “I’m fine, really. You didn’t have to come in here.”

As soon as he said these words, Sherlock’s arms tightened, pressing the other man’s chest flush with his back. “I wanted to,” he said. “I don’t like hearing you scream like that.” Sherlock’s usual cuttingly precise tone was gone in favor of something… sad, and lost. It really, truly bothered him to hear John in pain—even mental pain. He guessed it made sense, Sherlock did cure his limp after barely knowing him for a day. John always thought that was so he would better suit Sherlock’s purposes, after all, what good was an assistant who couldn’t walk properly?

But maybe Sherlock did it because he simply couldn’t stand seeing John in pain. A man he’d known for barely a day, and he couldn’t stand his pain.

So John found himself doing the comforting instead of being comforted. He was used to his nightmares, so calming down after wasn’t really a problem. His heart rate had already slowed to an acceptable pace—not resting, but not racing—while Sherlock’s heart still beat a frantic tempo into John’s back. He gave Sherlock’s thighs a firm squeeze with his fingers. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m fine. You don’t have to be so worried about me.”

The words seemed to reassure Sherlock and he loosened his hold, but by no means did he let go. “May I,” he started, then paused. John felt the deep breath fill Sherlock’s lungs before he tried again. “May I stay here tonight?”

“Of course,” John nodded.

They didn’t say anything more, John just closed his eyes and tried to find sleep again. It was surprisingly easy. Usually, after his nightmares, he was so flushed with adrenaline and panic that he couldn’t fall asleep for hours, but with Sherlock there, it was easy. Easier than he had ever imagined. With two strong arms wrapped around his chest, one leg hooked over his hip while the other twined between his legs, and Sherlock’s warm breath on his neck, John found it impossible to stay awake.

The next morning, John was surprised to wake up and find Sherlock was still there, still wrapped around him like some sort of human starfish. His fingers had even worked their way into John’s clothing, not to fondle and caress like a lover would, but simply to have more to hold onto. He had a lot of trouble unwinding those long fingers from where they’d gotten themselves tangled in the drawstring of his pajama bottoms.

When John emerged from the shower, Sherlock was up and dressed, sitting in the lounge and tuning his violin like nothing had ever happened.

For the next year, every time John had a nightmare, he would wake wrapped in Sherlock’s arms. It was clear right from the start that Sherlock needed this more than he did, but it was nice all the same. Having a warm, safe place to wake up to was more than John ever could have hoped for. And even as his nightmares became less frequent, he would still wake to find Sherlock in his bed. Which was fine. It was all fine.

 

~

 

After Sherlock’s Fall, John’s nightmares stopped ringing with bullets and cries for a medic. Now, they consisted of one thing: Sherlock’s long, lean, beautiful body, falling. Down, down, down, right in front of John’s eyes. And then blood on the sidewalk. Running into the gutter, painting perfect skin red. Every night before Sherlock came back, John woke up screaming his name into the darkness of his own bedroom. Without those arms there to hold him, the nightmares always seemed worse.

When Sherlock returned from the dead and came back to 221B, John was ecstatic. Beyond. It had never occurred to him, not even in his wildest dreams, that he would ever see Sherlock again. So having him back was amazing. Fantastic. John couldn’t think of a word strong enough.

Sure, he’d been angry. When he first saw the face of the man he thought dead, John was plenty angry—and rightfully so. Then, after he’d shouted himself hoarse, he’d lunged at Sherlock, pulling him into a bone-crunching hug. Sherlock surprised him further by pulling back just enough to push forward again and place a small kiss on John’s lips.

It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even the kiss of a lover. Just the kiss of a friend. A friend who knew he’d done wrong, but was none the less happy to return. John felt that it covered his emotions well.

But even with the status quo returned to Baker Street, the nightmares were still there. And on Sherlock’s first night back—not dead, not dead, John would think to himself—John still found himself screaming the detective’s name into the silent air of his room. Except this time, he awoke again to a strong body wrapped completely around him.

“Sherlock,” John panted. His hands automatically moved back to grip Sherlock’s thighs, like it had been three nights since he’d last done it and not three years. “I’m alright. I’m fine.” That’s how it went: after a nightmare, John needed to tell Sherlock that it was okay. The danger was only in his head. It wasn’t real.

Yet unlike any other time Sherlock had done this, John could feel him shaking against his back. Usually, Sherlock’s breathing would be heavy, yes, sometimes his voice a little tight. But he had never shaken like this. Pressed tight against John, he could feel Sherlock quivering. Head to toe, even the parts of him wrapped so tightly around John that they cut off circulation. “Sherlock,” John tightened his grip on the other man. “It’s okay, it was just a nightmare. I’m fine.”

“You were screaming my name,” even his voice shook. With his lips pressed against the back of John’s neck, he didn’t so much speak as breathe the words. “You were yelling for me. Telling me not to—” Sherlock cut himself off, but he didn’t need to finish. John understood. The last time he’d yelled like that, Sherlock was--

Somehow, John managed to maneuver until he was the one holding Sherlock. One arm wrapped around that slim waist while the other cupped the back of his head. “Shush, hush now,” he whispered as his fingers started combing through the mass of black curls. “It’s alright. It’s fine. Shush…”

John laid there making soft, soothing sounds until Sherlock’s breathing evened out. Small tremors still shook his limbs every time John shifted even the smallest amount, which led him to believe that Sherlock was only pretending to sleep. It didn’t matter, because John was not about to let go of him.

When the first glow of sunrise started to light the windows, Sherlock’s quiet snores reached John’s ears. Finally asleep. Closing his own eyes, John went to get a few more hours sleep, Sherlock still in his arms.

The next night, it was the same. Another nightmare. A terrifying flash of Sherlock falling through the air, with John watching from the pavement, powerless to stop it. And again, he awoke to find Sherlock wrapped around him, tighter than ever. When John had calmed, he turned over to hold him and whispered soothing nonsense into Sherlock’s hair, his other hand stroking that long back. Soon, the detective was asleep. John followed him.

It went like this for a week, maybe longer, John didn’t really keep track. All he knew was that, every night, he woke up wrapped in Sherlock. And that was just fine with him.

Eleven days after Sherlock returned from the dead, John made a decision. He was already washed and ready for bed, but before he headed up, he walked over to Sherlock, sitting in the kitchen with his microscope. God, had John missed that sight. Though he was loathe to stop it, he needed to say this.

“Sherlock?” He asked.

Unlike before, when Sherlock would’ve told him to hold on or ignored him entirely, he looked up right away. “Yes John?” He asked.

“I’m going up to bed,” he said, though saying that to the world’s most observant man while wearing pajamas was probably more than a little redundant. “Would you like to…” even though he’d practiced this—mentally prepared himself for what he was about to ask—the words stuck in John’s throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Would you like to join me?” He eyed the microscope before adding, “Or, if you’ve something to finish up, I could go into your room and you could join me when you’re done?”

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. “My room, if you please. I feel you’ll be more comfortable in my bed. It’s larger.”

John’s stomach fluttered at the words. Yes, he thought, this was happening. “Right,” John nodded. “I’ll see you later then?”

A bright smile lit Sherlock’s face. “Yes. See you soon.” The smile still on his face, Sherlock turned back to the microscope and John walked to the bedroom.

He closed the door to Sherlock’s room behind himself and took a few calming breaths. “Okay,” he sighed. “Right.” Then, John set about disrobing and sliding under the sheets to wait for Sherlock.

An hour or so later, the door opened again, but Sherlock didn’t get into bed right away. He walked into the bathroom and started cleaning up from whatever experiment he’d just been conducting. John took that time to wake himself out of the lazy doze he’d settled into and get things ready.

When Sherlock walked back into the bedroom, John had already pulled back the covers for him. He climbed into the bed and John immediately leaned over to press their lips together. His hand drifted down to Sherlock’s groin, where he felt… fabric. He pulled back before Sherlock could even tell him something was amiss—John already knew something was wrong. Reaching over, he switched on the bedside lamp to have a proper look at things.

With the light on, John could see the look on Sherlock’s face. Caught somewhere between a deer in headlights, confusion and terror. And John had put that look there. All at once, he realized: Sherlock hadn’t misunderstood John’s intentions, John had misunderstood Sherlock’s.

“This… isn’t what you meant to happen, is it?” He asked quietly.

Still not speaking, Sherlock shook his head. A quick, almost frantic movement that told John everything. Sherlock was nervous, afraid even. And John had done that.

Somewhat deflated, but by no means dejected, John pulled the blankets up to cover himself and moved away a bit. “What do you want?” He asked Sherlock.

It took a moment for the ice of surprise to melt, but finally, Sherlock did answer. “John, if you want me to—”

“No,” John shook his head and laid his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sure, he was naked and half-hard, but Sherlock mattered more. “I asked what _you_ want. What do you want from me? From this?” He gestured to the bed. “Do you want me to kiss you? Do you want to have sex? Do you want me to leave? Just tell me what you want and I will give it to you.” It was strange, John was the one who had been lied to for three years. He was the one who still had nightmares of watching his best friend die. Yet here he was, ready to give Sherlock whatever he might need, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness. It was something John had always done, and he wasn’t about to change his ways.

“John,” Sherlock whispered after a moment. “I love you. But I can’t…” John could practically see Sherlock trying to speak around the words caught in his throat. Sherlock Holmes struck dumb, now that was something John never thought he’d see.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to figure out what to say. “If you want sex, I can’t give it to you. I’m not—”

“No,” John said quickly, cutting Sherlock off. “I asked you to tell me what _you_ want. Don’t worry about me.” Pulling his hand off Sherlock’s knee, John reached up to grip his shoulder, steadying him. “What do you want, Sherlock? Please tell me.”

Long fingers grabbed at his hand, pulling it away from his shoulder until it came to cup his cheek. Sherlock covered John’s hand with both of his before he spoke. “I want you to get dressed, then I want you to get back into bed, and hold me while we both sleep. And,” he closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to shake away the memories. “And I never want to hear you shout my name like that again.”

“Yes,” John nodded, stroking his thumb over one of those lovely cheek bones, John pulled away and got out of the bed to recover his clothes. Ever the gentleman (or perhaps from shyness) Sherlock turned his head away while John got dressed.

When he felt the bed dip again, Sherlock all but plastered himself to John’s side as he lowered them both to the mattress. “Alright?” John asked, arranging them in a comfortable sleeping position.

Sherlock nodded against John’s chest. “Yes, good night John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

The room fell silent. John closed his eyes and really did try to sleep, but he could tell by Sherlock’s breathing that the younger man was still awake. Half the time, he wasn’t as great an actor as he thought. “I love you too, you know,” John whispered in the darkness. “Always have.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock’s breathing evened out and he started snoring. John smiled and relaxed back into the pillows. Soon he was asleep as well.

It wasn’t the most normal relationship John had ever had, but then again, it was. When he came home from the surgery, or they got back from one grisly crime scene or another, Sherlock would press close to John. They talked just the same as they always did, they ate their meals the same—if Sherlock sat a little closer, neither of them said anything about it. Sherlock would sit next to him on the sofa as they watched some telly, his head leaning on John’s shoulder. Sherlock let John touch and hug to his heart’s content, and Sherlock would touch back. They held each other in the night, whispered words of love.

A time or two when Sherlock got spectacularly pissed, he would crash into bed and press kisses to John’s jaw, which lead to a short-lived snog on top of the covers. But it never went any further than that. Sherlock had his boundaries, and John did not push them. Never would. Because sex or no sex, he had Sherlock’s love. Relationships weren’t built on kisses and blowjobs, morning shags and slow, tender love making. They were built on this right here, and it was something Sherlock and John had always had.

Because as long as Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was John, it would always be like this. And it would always be perfect.

The End


End file.
